“Now, you see,” said he, resuming the thread of his discourse, as if nothing had happened, “this back seat turns down and makes a box, so that when Mrs. J——­ goes to her mother’s at Tooting, she can take all her things with her, instead of sending half of them by the coach as she used to do; and if we are heavy, there is a pole belonging to it, so that we can have two horses; and then there is a seat draws out here (pulling a stool from between his legs) which anybody can sit on.”  “Yes, anybody that is small enough,” said the Yorkshireman, “but you would cut a queer figure on it, I reckon.”  The truth was, that the “fire-engine” was one of those useless affairs built by some fool upon a plan of his own, with the idea of combining every possible comfort and advantage, and in reality not possessing one.  Friend Jorrocks had seen it at a second-hand shop in Fore Street, and became the happy owner of it, in exchange for the cruelty-van and seventeen pounds.—­Their appearance on the road created no small sensation, and many were the jokes passed upon the “fire-engine.”  One said they were mountebanks; another that it was a horse-break; a third asked if it was one of Gurney’s steam-carriages, while a fourth swore it was a new convict-cart going to Brixton.  Jorrocks either did not or would not hear their remarks, and kept expatiating upon the different purposes to which the machine might be converted, and the stoutness of the horse that was drawing it.

As they approached the town of Croydon, he turned his cloak over his legs in a very workman-like manner, and was instantly hailed by some brother sportsmen;—­one complimented him on his looks, another on his breeches, a third praised his horse, a fourth abused the fire-engine, and a fifth inquired where he got his glazed hat.  He had an answer for them all, and a nod or a wink for every pretty maid that showed at the windows; for though past the grand climacteric, he still has a spice of the devil in him—­and, as he says, “there is no harm in looking.”  The “Red Lion” at Smitham Bottom was the rendezvous of the day.  It is a small inn on the Brighton road, some three or four miles below Croydon.  On the left of the road stands the inn, on the right is a small training-ground, and the country about is open common and down.  There was an immense muster about the inn, and also on the training-ground, consisting of horsemen, gig-men, post-chaise-men, footmen,—­Jorrocks and the Yorkshireman made the firemen.

“Here’s old Jorrocks, I do declare”, exclaimed one, as Jorrocks drove the fire-engine up at as quick a pace as his horse would go.  “Why, what a concern he’s in”, said another, “why, the old man’s mad, surely".—­“He’s good for a subscription,” added another, addressing him.  “I say, Jorrocks, old boy, you’ll give us ten pound for our hounds won’t you?—­that’s a good fellow.”  “Oh yes, Jorrocks promised us a subscription last year,” observed another, “and he is a man of his word—­arn’t